Death is My Life's Motif
by elphabah
Summary: Told through Gil Grissom's perspective, these are his words as he remembers and looks back on his childhood and the events that made him the man he is today.
1. Chapter 1

**I.**

The first time my mother said the word 'death' in our silent language left me in a temporary case of confusion. Temporary in the way that it did not last forever though it did leave an impact that would charge my life with bitterness for many years to come. For the day the word 'death' held meaning in my world was consequently the day my father died.

Even as the tears welled up in her eyes, her hands were fluttering to explain the how's, the why's. The questions of what to do now with our broken family had yet to surface. Those questions, I would later find, would beg to be answered at a later date. For now I was just a nine-year-old boy, unconcerned with anything past my present despair. I was a just a nine-year-old boy turning away from his mother---shutting his eyes to avoid what she had to say.

I did not cry that day. Nor the day after. Nor the weeks and months to come. Like a basin, I was full of hidden tears that I did not want to share with anyone. Not even my own mother.

So together we sat on the funeral pews. Side by side but infinitely worlds apart. Even surrounded by such sadness, aunts and uncles, cousins and family friends weeping for a man now lost I could not bring myself to cry.

Instead, I kept my head low, bowed in the prayers of my parent's Catholicism but already the words were losing their meaning. If a righteous God could steal a hard-working botanist and leave behind a city full of murderers, then was he truly righteous? I was so young then but in an instant I had begun to question everything. In the years to come, this faltered doubt would give way to emptiness. Even as I grew into a man, I never had the heart to tell my mother of my renounced faith but I think she knew, or at least eventually realized, that I was no longer Catholic.

It was not an entire lost, however. For my faith in religion became replaced by other things. Like science. I found comfort in the facts and solace in my personal discoveries. I kept my bible on my table but in the drawers were piles and piles of biology textbooks. Back then, while other boys were playing baseball I was eagerly calculating the speed at which a fruit fly's larva hatched.

By high school, this interest in science had replaced all other motivating factors in my life. I attended St. John's Academy---sporadically. Despite my later success in college, I was labeled a delinquent by my teachers and a ghost by my classmates. In truth, my chronic habit of skipping was mostly to do with boredom. I had become convinced that the walls of high school were too limiting for my academic pursuits.

But my principal thought differently.

And when he wrote a personal letter describing the situation, so did she.

After spending a day in the downtown library instead of school, I came home to the dead silence and burning gaze of my aging mother. She stalked forward, her petite frame transforming into a daunting anger. So although she was several feet shorter then me, I still felt as though she towered. Her hands jerked in a frustrated matter. 'Where were you today? Your principal wrote a letter to say you have not been going to school! What are you thinking?'

In a flash of insolence I grumbled a reply and turned my back without even signing--which was just as good as ignoring her. It was also just as good as ensuring a severe reprimand. With surprising agility she reached out and snatched my ear in a painful pinch. I yelped, if only out of alarm as she dragged me into the kitchen like a little child, setting me at the breakfast table. I endured two hours of scolding that forever stamped out any compelling notion to lash out with disrespect to this woman.

The next morning I was surprised by the sudden vibration of our front door's buzzer system. Built into the house itself, it registered a dull vibration across the wooden floors that could be felt in most parts of the house. The Grissom household rarely had visitors and even rarer would someone come to their doorstep on a 7 o'clock Thursday morning. This was perhaps why it came to my shock to find the peculiar figure of my next-door neighbor standing outside in the cold morning air.

Charlotte Greene was a girl in my grade whom I had known for many years out of our mothers being close friends. Despite the friendship of our parents, the feelings were never mutual between me and her. She was, as I distinctly recall, the perfect example of the 'wholesome all-American Catholic girl'. There was nothing pretentious about her. But the fact that she was well-liked and highly active in our school's social body was enough to keep me at a wary distance.

But here she was. At my doorstep. Standing in her St. John's uniform with matching book bag. She cocked her head to the side and smiled, "Morning Gil!"

"What are you doing here?" was all I managed to answer with. In defense, I was even more socially awkward then, then I am now. It was not that I ever wanted to be terribly rude to Charlotte; she was a rather okay person even if I didn't know her too well, but speaking with people had never been my forte. It still isn't.

"Nice to see you too," she replied undaunted, slipping past the slightly ajar door to step inside my house.

"Are you ready for school yet? If we leave in the next couple minutes we can make it to the bus stop on time."

I shut the door slightly perturbed, blinking. "We?"

"Yep," she nodded, fashioning her arms across her chest. "Didn't your mom tell you?"

I furrowed my brow, trying to think back if my mother had mentioned anything the night before about Charlotte Green showing up on my doorstep in the morning. I was sure she hadn't but then again, like I said here she was.

When I did not reply nor even move, Charlotte sighed and seated herself daintily on the sofa. Delicately smoothing her pleated skirt, she said, "Well your mom asked my mom if I could, you know, watch over you. Make sure you stay in school and all that jazz. I think she's just kind of worried that you aren't trying hard enough in your classes. But don't worry about it, buddy. Between studying after school and every Saturday, we'll have you back on track in no time."

I winced at her cheery optimism. It seems I had involuntarily become Charlotte's newest charity project and I was worried just what it might entail. When I tried to protest such a plan, she raised her hand and cut me off, "now Gil, whether you like it or not this is the way it's gonna be so get your books and we can get to school on time."

And no amount of grumbling and unfriendly glares could get this girl to waver. As time passed and this became a routine exercise, Charlotte continued to push me down the sidewalk---make sure I got on that bus every morning (as well as making sure I got off it in the afternoon), I only later realized the impression she had made on my life. That there had been many moments in which I should have said 'thank you' and that by the time I came to this epiphany it was already too late.


	2. Chapter 2

**II. **

True to her word, Charlotte studied with me after school each day and for an hour and a half on Saturdays. Except on Tuesdays when she had piano lessons with the music teacher, Mrs. Frank, our afternoons were spent together. It was awkward at first, more so because I never really took to being around others. But also because Charlotte was just so open. We would walk through the park after school, before heading to the library, and she would talk and talk. She would ask me questions about myself but I never encouraged this.

"Gil, you know you're a pretty okay kid if only you would talk more," she said one time. It was a cold autumn day and as we walked, Charlotte was crunching dead leaves under her feet with a childish gusto. I was sort of caught up in the way she moved, like a gangly foal still testing its mobility, that her statement didn't immediately register.

"Maybe I just don't have anything to say."

"That's not true," she stated, "Everyone's got something to say."

"Except for me," I answered evenly. Charlotte gave me a funny look, scrunching her small nose.

The question that came next caught me slightly off guard, "Well, what makes you so special?"

"Pardon?"

She had stopped walking and we lingered there as the fading sunlight began to turn the trees into a bloody crimson. Charlotte stared at me with her wide brown eyes, opening her mouth to speak but quickly shutting it before any words could escape. "Oh never mind, Gil. Like I said you're a pretty okay kid."

As weeks and months past, Charlotte became more and more a part of my life. There were days that I found myself not wanting to end our study sessions, inviting her over for dinner if only so I could listen to her voice. Because despite the fact that she did an awful lot of talking, I had grown to enjoy her stories. She filled the void that I couldn't fill with my own witty words.

I think my mother really was happy to have Charlotte around at dinner too. I didn't know why at first, because after all she could not hear anything that was said, until one day I realized that as Charlotte's lips moved she was also making gestures that my mother understood. "Where did you learn sign-language?" I asked her.

"My cousin's deaf," she answered, taking a sip from her tea. "You never noticed?"

Up until that point, I realized there were a lot of things I had never noticed. Even as a would-be scientist, sometimes the details of my environment just slipped by. Why was this? I do not know. Perhaps because I was terribly introverted and was constantly focused on what was going on in my head.

"What am I going to do with you?" she laughed and it was such a pretty sound.

**III.**

Charlotte Greene died on January 3rd 1973 and I remember the last thing I ever got to say to her the night before her murder.

"Gill I got something important to tell you."

"What's that?" We were sitting on her porch and it was getting very very cold. She was shivering slightly but refused to go inside, so I wrapped my arm around her and we sat together. I don't think I noticed that I had put my arm around her because it had been subconscious. Charlotte didn't mind, she rested her head on my shoulder and we sat in silence. It was a companionable silence, where neither party cared too much about a lapse in conversation.

"I think I'm falling in love with you, you silly boy," she said eventually.

"Oh."

" 'oh'? That's it?" She said, pulling away from me. "This is the part where you say 'Gee Charlotte, I think I'm falling in love with you too."

I grinned but she looked more then slightly upset. She turned away and I felt bad for a moment because it looked like she might have started to cry.

"Charlotte."

"What?"

"I'm in love with you."


	3. Chapter 3

**IV.**

Charlotte's funeral was held on a Tuesday, in the same parlor I had been in eight years ago. Different faces, but the same sadness. There were so many people that showed up they had to bring in extra chairs to accommodate the mourners and even then that wasn't enough. The room simply wasn't large enough to fit all the people that had loved Charlotte.

I remember this day distinctly because I sometimes I revisit it in my dreams and memories. All the details, they flood my senses. The scent of jasmine (her favorite flower), baskets full of violet petals filling the room with her presence. The quiet sound of people whispering to one another. A lull of silence. Voices. Another lull.

I remember looking over several times to see Charlotte's father weeping, her mother's head resting on his shoulder. I also recall standing up, standing in front of all those people and talking. No one had asked me, it was I who had asked her parents if I could. I think it caught them by surprise that I would volunteer to deliver the eulogy. I think the students there, too, were surprised. Had I even ever talked during school?

But you see my love for her would always outweigh any anxiety for public speaking and this was something I wanted to do. Strangely, this is one part of the memory I never can recall with the most preciseness. The words, they jumble together as I try to rehear them in my mind. _She was a beautiful girl, beautiful spirit and beautiful mind. _I stumbled and faltered over every syllable. Someone later told me that I didn't say anything at all. Or if I did, they couldn't hear me through all the tears I cried. . .

For the most part, I do not wish to think about this day. Not now, not ever. For even as the years create a greater gap from the event and the present moment, I still feel it is all too fresh, too crisp. But do not misunderstand me. It is that day I wish to forget but not Charlotte.

Never Charlotte.

Sometimes early in the morning before the rest of the world has started, I will make a cup of Earl Grey and sit in the silence of my darkened home. And when I do, I tend to think of what could have been. There is a statistic that says few people marry their high school sweetheart, but who knows? Who knows what could have been?

I cannot answer these questions, cannot account for what universal force took Charlotte out of this world and put me on the path I am on today. Some believe in karma, others believe in God. I believe in many things, but as you well know, religion does not claim a place amongst this list. I believe in one event triggering another. Of one life ending so another can begin. Cause and effect. Each action is just a reaction to something that has already happened.

Her murderer was never caught, never prosecuted; I could not bring her back to life. As bitter as the injustice made me, it kindled a passion that had laid dormant. Perhaps I could not help what was done to Charlotte, but I could help others. Give others the peace of mind that I would never possess.

It was my freshman year at college that I discovered a new passion. Forensic Science.

I had been accepted to UCLA as just another biology major but leaning towards etymology. As a side job I was working as an intern at the Las Angeles County morgue—not really officially as they had no place for a college student with no degree, but I liked knowing I was useful to them.

But by twenty-two it was made official when I became the youngest coroner in L.A.'s history. Nothing really fazed me, not the recognition by my peers nor the new found power of being 'someone' in the eyes of society. I was married to my work back then and some say I still am. I was surrounded by what I was good at, cutting things open and finding out what had made them tick. Which is not to imply that I am like Descartes and believe that creatures are just giant clocks. . . that would be ridiculous.

The work was fine; where others turned squeamish at the sight of blood, I merely brushed it off my shirt sleeve and continued on. I knew that in some small way, I was helping unravel the mysteries that surrounded this Jane Doe, or why a healthy athletic teenager suddenly died.

I was _content_, though perhaps not satisfied. Maybe that's the reason why I listened to Dr. Fisher, a recruiter from Las Vegas, one day when he entered my office one evening.

"Mr. Grissom?" There was a knock at the door and I looked up from my paperwork to see the white-tufted hair of an old man as he poked his head into the room.

I settled the pen on the table. Paperwork was never my pleasure, but neither still was conversation which is why I hesitated before saying, "Yes, what can I do for you?"

The old man, a tiny weathered creature, shuffled across the linoleum floor as he entered. Coming to my desk he laid out his hand, which trembled in the air, "My name is Maxwell Fisher from the Las Vegas Field Services."

My gaze darted to the window, where just outside the glass I could see one of my bosses talking to another individual. The old man in front of me must have guessed my reaction as he quickly added, "relax my boy, I have already spoken with your supervisors about this little visit and I am authorized to be here."

He said this with a warm smile but I remained passive. Fisher had not been the first to approach me in my four years of working as a coroner. People as far as New York had called, written, even showed up on my front door to discuss recruitment offers. I had turned them all down, just as I was about to do with whatever this man had to say. After all, he seemed rather old and probably did not have many breaths left to spare on me when it was all going to end in refusal.

But something he said next stopped me from doing this.

"I am aware that you are quite comfortable here, Mr. Grissom and that before I can even tell you what I have come here to say, you are already thinking of ways to decline any offers I might present," he said with a very labored heave, "which is quite a pity because something tells me you might be interested in taking on bigger challenges."

I quirked a brow, interest mildly peaked, "go on."

"Ah glad you will give this old coot the time of day," he said with a chuckle. Fisher pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and continued, "But really it would be in your best interest to at least keep an open mind."

"I try to keep an open mind, but not so open that my brain falls out," I answered.

"Oh splendid wit you have there! Shaw?"

"Stone."

"Of course," Fisher said with a nod. "Well I can tell I like you already, my boy. Sharp as tack. Which I suppose is all the more reason for me to get you out to Las Vegas."

Evidently Fisher had taken to me quicker then I to him.

"But of course, the incentive. Normally this is the part where I discuss things like the higher position and pay raise but you've been offered this all before—even turning down a chap from D.C. So why bother with all that," at this point I was rather impressed with the background check this man had done. I didn't realize very many knew at all I had turned down a job at Washington D.C.'s office but evidently he did. "Well what would you say to full access to Las Vegas's criminal investigation lab?"

"I would have to say, what's the catch?" After all, I couldn't believe what this man was saying. But a voice inside me was already saying 'yes' even before my governing rationale could kick in.

"My colleagues and I have deliberated for many months as to who would best fit the job and your name has came up numerous times. We are essentially giving you the keys to the palace so to speak, Mr. Grissom," he said and there was a sincerity in his eyes that partially convinced me this wasn't a hoax. "Think of what you could do with this."

"I haven't lead criminal investigations before though," I answered truthfully.

"Neither did your predecessor," Fisher said.

"And how'd he do?" I asked.

The old man smiled, his lips tugging back creating more wrinkles on his face. "Well, I'd say he ended up doing just fine for himself. After thirty-five years and hundreds of solved cases, he seems pretty proud of what he accomplished. Which is probably why he wouldn't want his job to go to just anyone," Fisher said with a wheeze, "in fact, I'm pretty sure that's why he flew out to Los Angeles and personally visited the office of a young Mr. Grissom—to ask him eye to eye to consider this job."

At that point, I was already making up my mind. Even before I considered buying a ticket to Las Vegas, I already knew where my destination would be.

So with the faintest of smiles, I replied, "Mr. Fisher, I would like to consider your offer."


	4. Chapter 4

**V. **"Grissom, when was the last time you did anything fun?" Catherine Willows asks me one evening. It was during the first year I met her as we worked side-by-side in Vegas's Criminalist's Bureau. But of course it wasn't the last time she would pose this question.

I looked up from eating my breakfast/dinner, a mix of cranberries and salad, and stared. It amazed me at the time how comfortable Catherine was with prying into people's lives. I suppose it was partially because she considered us close enough for such blunt conversation but I was only mildly flattered. For the most part, I didn't like being harassed.

"What do you mean by that?" I replied softly, a tone delude of any annoyance despite the prick of offense riding on the horizon. I could trace where this question was leading, another stab at my demeanor. And yet I let myself be pulled into it. She was sitting on the opposite side of the table, flitting through a magazine. Her blue eyes lifted from the pages as she leaned against her hand. Every gesture was calculated, precise. I knew very little about Catherine back then, only enough to gauge her personality as the antithesis of my own: engaging, charismatic, and _slightly_ obnoxious.

Slick pink lips revealed artificially white teeth. "You know what I mean, Grissom. When was the last time you went out to a bar? Hung out with some friends?" I finished munching on my salad, slowly chewing on her words. "I am not one for alcohol."

"And what about friends?"

"I have a few."

Catherine was an impatient young woman. She's changed over the years, mind you, but in some respect our conversations have often ended in the same pattern. She sighed exasperatedly and rolled her eyes, muttering a 'never mind'. I continued eating my salad.

In the beginning, it had simply been me and Catherine. There were others, of course, but we formed an unlikely alliance in those early years. She would handle matters of people and image: collecting evidence from unwilling suspects, making friends out of public enemies. And in the shadows I would work my magic, connecting puzzle pieces while she unraveled the clues. There was nothing really romantic about this bond. Catherine was an attractive woman, she still is, but our friendship was platonic. Always.

As time passed, as our lab went from a #14 ranking to a respectable #2, our graveyard shift family extended, was molded and then remolded. The circle of people I cared about, I mean truly cared about, expanded. First Warrick and Nick, then Sara and even Greg began to grow on me.

It's the present moment now and the heat weighs down on me as I walk under a moonless Las Vegas sky. I steal a moment to savor a weak breeze, but the heavy nylon vest and black undershirt don't mix with this brief reprieve and so it goes hardly felt. The members of my team are walking ahead, I see their figures fade into inky blackness, reappearing with the glow of the flashlight. Four figures illuminated, eventually become five when Greg finally gets his flashlight to work.

I arrive shortly behind them, carrying the photography equipment. Police officers in land-rovers are slowly trickling in, people are setting up a temporary lighting system. A flash and we have power, in an instant I see her face.

It's Charlotte. My muscles tighten in a momentary parlysis, the shock of seeing such a familiar face. One completely unchanged by time. Her brown eyes forming a vacant stare, brown hair spread against the dry earth. Small lips moving in a labored effort to tell me what has happened to her after all these years. . .

Suddenly there is a hand on my shoulder and instinctively I recoil, only it's a very subtle gesture and only Catherine notices. "Grissom? Are you alright?"

The others fix their gazes on me and I am surprised to see their worry. I shake off any lingering feelings and nod, quietly pulling out the forensic lab's camera. After a slight pause, everyone accepts the transpired moment with their own private conclusions, and gets back to work.

When I look at the corpse again, this time behind the lens of the camera, she changes. It's not Charlotte, in fact, the person before me looks nothing like her. Her nose is too wide and she looks older, maybe in her thirties. I don't know why my mind jumped, why it showed me Charlotte in this Jane Doe's place but I do not easily forget this event and it haunts me well after my shift has ended.

I can't make sense of it. Perhaps it was some kind of pent up trauma, or maybe I simply have been working too hard lately. But in the end, it still troubles me. When I finally get home, I go to my closet where I keep a small wooden box. Inside I take out a picture, it was old and weathered by the image still remained distinct. It was of me and Charlotte, taken on a school trip to the beach.

To be honest, I had not really thought of her lately. And maybe my reaction at the crime scene was really her as a ghost, reminding me not to forget. But how could I? I can't forget. Just like I couldn't forget my father's death, which was even longer ago. In fact, as I begin to consider it--there isn't a single death I haven't forgotten. All of them stay with me, holding out in the deep recesses of my memory. For you see, death is my life's motif.

I deal with the Grim Reaper every day as a career.

And afterwards we drink tea.


End file.
